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I have always been at the mercy of my childhood.

From the ages of 5 to 12, my world was turned upside down. Trauma and horrors became constants, shaping a childhood that should have been filled with safety, laughter, and love. Those years should have been the season of scraped knees and bedtime stories, but instead they became years of silence, survival, and wounds too heavy for a child to carry. I learned early on to scan the room before I stepped inside, to hold my breath when I should have been giggling, to be ready for pain when I should have been free to play.

And woven into all of this was another layer of struggle—one I didn’t fully understand at the time. I was a child with ADHD and OCD, already living in a mind that ran fast, felt deeply, and carried rituals and worries I couldn’t explain. The world was louder and brighter for me, and I absorbed every detail, every shift in tone, every unspoken tension. It was overwhelming, but instead of support, I was often met with misunderstanding. Only recently, in adulthood, I also received an Autism diagnosis—suddenly so much of my past made sense. The ways I felt different, the ways I processed the world, the reasons I felt “too much” or “not enough” depending on who I was with. As a child, though, I had no words for this. It simply made the burden of trauma heavier.

I was always a fighter—stubborn, fiery, unwilling to be broken completely—but at just 12 years old, the weight of it all shifted. In a pivotal moment, I was forced into becoming the protector I desperately needed. The little girl inside me should have been shielded, nurtured, wrapped in safety. Instead, she hardened into a warrior, because no one else came.

At 12, I became strong. I found my voice, though it trembled. I stood my ground, though my legs shook. But in that moment of rising, I also lost pieces of my childhood I can never reclaim. The innocence of believing I was safe, the freedom to trust without fear, the luxury of simply being young—all of it slipped through my hands. I should not have had to grow up so fast. But life gave me no other choice.

There was a moment at 14 when I suffered so greatly, I was so alone, I carved initials into my ankle, an anarchy symbol, and tried to end the pain on more than one occasion, none of which were successful. I am glad now that none of them were. I would have never had my children or found my person if it had been. The universe had other plans for me. It saw the pain but it also saw my hesitation. That was also the year I met her, my best friend and the loneliness, the pain, and the constant state of flight began to become a little easier. I could breathe a bit more, though the cycle was far from over.

The truth is, the trauma didn’t end at 12. It followed me like a shadow into adulthood, weaving itself into my every breath and thought. From 12 until I was 24, I lived in a constant state of fight. Always ready. Always braced. My body knew no rest; my mind knew no peace. Even in quiet moments, I could not relax—I was always on guard, waiting for the next strike. They kept coming, it was relentless. It always felt like it was one thing after another from abuse, to religious trauma, to other acts of violence, I felt like I was drowning.

At 25, I finally broke free. That was the first crack in the armor, the first breath that felt like my own, a sensation that was both exhilarating and terrifying. But breaking free is not the same as healing. Healing came later—slow, raw, jagged, much like navigating a treacherous path filled with thorns. It came in waves and backslides, in tears and moments of clarity that sparkled like stars in the darkest nights. Each step forward was often met with the weight of old wounds resurfacing, echoes of pain that I thought I had left behind. It was not pretty; it was messy and complicated, filled with doubt and uncertainty, but it was real. It was the kind of journey that transformed me, teaching me lessons I never expected to learn about resilience, vulnerability, and the power of self-acceptance. Through this tumultuous process, I discovered not only my strength but also the profound beauty that can arise from facing one’s own truth.

At 25 was when I met my person, my now husband. Just as my friend before, I found healing with them, a profound sense of peace that wrapped around me like a warm blanket on a cold night. I found someone with whom I could share my darkness and my light, someone who embraced my flaws and insecurities, showing me that I was worthy of love in all my complexities. Someone who loved all of me, not just the surface, who delved deeper into my soul and cherished the essence of who I was. They accepted me and my children wholeheartedly, becoming an unwavering pillar of support in our lives. They fought for me with a fierce dedication that ignited a spark within me, who clung to me during my most difficult moments, reassuring me that I was never alone in this journey. They defended me against my own doubts and fears, standing by my side as a true partner should. This was something I had never really experienced as a constant presence; it was a refreshing change from the fleeting care I had often encountered.

Sure, there were people in my family who did that for me, but those individuals were not constant in their protection, their love, and their understanding. They never really saw all of me, my true self that yearned to be acknowledged and accepted. I had to mask and hide so much from them, presenting a façade that felt heavy and burdensome. In contrast, with my husband, I felt liberated, empowered to truly be who I was without fear of judgment or rejection, making every moment spent together a precious gift.

Now, at 42, I have found peace in many places. I have learned to forgive others, to release their hold on me, to no longer let their shadows dictate my present. But forgiving myself remains the steepest mountain. Forgiving the ways I survived, forgiving the walls I built, forgiving the silence I sometimes kept—it is harder than it sounds. Offering the younger me kindness, tenderness, and acceptance is still a challenge, because those things were so rarely given to me then.

And yet, I keep returning to her. I sit with her in meditation, allowing myself to feel the weight of all those unspoken emotions. I call her forth in ritual, lighting candles and creating a sacred space where she can feel welcomed and cherished. I remind her that she is not forgotten, that she is not unworthy, that she is not broken. I whisper to her that she is loved, that she is safe now, that she no longer has to fight every second of every day.

Each time I return, I try to give her a little of what was stolen: the softness of being held, the joy of being carefree, the grace of knowing she was always enough. I envision wrapping her in warmth and security, like a gentle embrace that she always longed for. Piece by piece, I am mending what was torn—not to erase the scars but to show her that even with them, she is beautiful, she is whole, and she is free.

This journey is not a linear path; it ebbs and flows like the ocean. [ Its a common thing I address, and it so important that you reading this understand… Healing takes time, it isn’t linear. ] Some days, I feel like I am making leaps and bounds in my healing, while others bring waves of doubt and old pain crashing back over me. Yet, in these tender moments of struggle, I find strength in the process itself. Embracing my vulnerability has become a powerful source of resilience, reminding me that growth often comes from the most uncomfortable places.

As I continue to nurture this younger version of myself, I also discover how to interweave her dreams into my present life. I allow her fears to surface, holding space for them, and transforming them into lessons of courage and wisdom. Each visit strengthens our bond, weaving a tapestry of hope and love that transcends time and trauma. I am learning that true forgiveness is not a destination but an ongoing journey, one marked with compassion for both myself and the little girl within.

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Shadow Work Ritual: Meeting Your Inner Child

For those who feel called, here is a ritual to connect with your own inner child and begin offering them what they truly needed.

What You’ll Need:

• A candle (white or pink for tenderness, red or orange for strength)
• A mirror or small photograph of yourself as a child
• A piece of paper and pen
• A quiet, safe space

Steps:

1. Ground Yourself – Light your candle and take a few deep breaths. Feel your body rooted in the present moment.
2. Call Her Forth – Hold the mirror or photo and look into those eyes. Imagine your inner child sitting before you, waiting.
3. Speak to Her – Tell her what she should have been told: “You are safe. You are loved. You are strong. You are enough.”
4. Write Her a Letter – On your paper, write down the things you wish she had heard growing up. Write as if you are speaking directly to her.
5. Seal It With Fire – Carefully (and safely), burn the paper in your candle flame or fold it and tuck it somewhere sacred, as an offering of protection and remembrance.
6. Close the Ritual – Thank your inner child for trusting you. Blow out the candle, knowing the flame now burns inside you.

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Daily Affirmation

“I am safe now. I forgive myself for surviving the only way I knew how. My inner child is loved, protected, and cherished within me. She no longer has to fight alone—I am here for her.”

Repeat this daily in the mirror. Say it until your voice softens, until the words begin to take root.

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Rune Reading for Shadow Work

For today’s work, the runes offer guidance:

• Berkano (ᛒ) – The rune of birthing and nurturing. It calls you to cradle your inner child with gentleness and love.
• Tiwaz (ᛏ) – The rune of strength and justice. A reminder of the warrior spirit you carried too young, but also of the courage that will continue to see you through.
• Laguz (ᛚ) – The rune of flow and healing. It asks you to soften, to let emotions move through you rather than bind you in place.

Together, these runes say: “Nurture your beginning self, honor the warrior within, and allow the waters of healing to carry you forward.”

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Guided Meditation: Holding Your Inner Child

1. Sit comfortably, closing your eyes.
2. Imagine walking down a forest path, soft moss beneath your feet. Ahead, you see a younger version of yourself—perhaps age 5, 8, or 12. She looks up at you with wide eyes.
3. Kneel before her. Notice her expression, her energy. She has waited a long time for you.
4. Reach out your hands, and when she takes them, pull her into an embrace. Feel her small arms around you. Whisper: “I am here. I love you. You are safe now.”
5. Imagine a golden light surrounding you both, wrapping you in warmth and protection. Stay here as long as you need.
6. When ready, walk back down the forest path together, hand in hand, carrying her safely inside your heart.

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Healing the inner child is not about erasing the scars. It is about finally giving her the tenderness, strength, and love she always deserved. She no longer has to fight alone. She has you now.

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✨ Much love and many blessings,
Mrs. B